The Master and His Apprentice
by Ethan-Silas
Summary: You're Enevre Hthena, a Superior Officer on your home planet, ready to fight to protect your people from the First Order. When Kylo Ren and his people defeat your comparably tiny military, though, he kills your leader and colonizes your planet. Sensing your power, he sets out to train you to be a Dark side user, like your mother before you. Will you become his apprentice?
1. What Now

It is absolute chaos around you, nothing but screaming and crying, running, the sound of missiles hitting the earth around you, your planet's own blasters shooting back. The civilians that had come to the military base were now panicking behind you, and many of your fellow soldiers had abandoned their posts. Some of the higher ups are looking for them, threatening reprimandation for anyone who allowed more to flee, but you can't bring yourself to try and stop your fellow officers from fleeing. Instead, you focus your canon on one TIE fighter at a time, deployed from the large ship slowly approaching. You know you were probably going to die here, but it isn't processing in your head. You know with each explosion you kill another human being, but that isn't processing, either. You are strangely calm, a sense of duty and determination washed over you. No matter how many TIE fighters you take out, more seem to arrive, though they're all as easy to shoot down as the last. The large ship is growing ever nearer, though, and countless bucketheads will march toward the remaining military and wipe you all out. Maybe they'll kill the civilians, but they were probably here to colonize rather than destroy. It's frightening to you how calmly you thought this- that sense of determination falters for a moment, and you miss the approaching craft- one notably different in appearance. You were the best shot on this planet, but everyone failed sometimes- usually, though, in your practice, your allies covered you, making sure no threat went unprevented. Maybe it was the small number of shooters left. Maybe it bad luck, or at least that pilot's _good_ luck.

Or maybe, the pilot had succeeded in that determination where you had failed.

The strange craft lands, and you aim your cannon at it again, but when you fire, it only sputters and pops. You fall back just in time to avoid the explosion. "_Fuck,"_ you hiss, then stumbledto a the only abandoned cannon close enough. You aim it at the craft, but the pilot has stupidly climbed out of his ride. You fire- only to get another malfunction. You barely avoid the explosion this time, and with a hissed curse, you stumble for cover behind the open metal door, pulling out your blaster. You glance out at him, just a black figure against the ice and snow. Everything seems to miss him, and no one else dares aim their cannon at him. You wait until he's close enough, then shoot; he flicks his wrist and the blast freezes mid air and crackles out of existence. _A Jedi? No- A Sith. That's what the bad guys are called_. You stare at him from your cover, a looming dark figure in a cape, a mask. From this distance, he looks almost exactly like Darth Vader, though silver metal gleams proudly on his helmet.

You curse before crouching and speeding to another abandoned cannon, narrowly missing shots. You duck behind one and supercharge it, readying it for distance. Unfortunately, your commanding officer is nearby, the very man who had told you all _not_ to risk that.

"Officer Hthena!" he shouts at you. "Just what are you doing?"

"All due respect, sir," he scream back. "I'm doing whatever I can!"

He snarls, knowing there's not enough time to waste reprimanding you now. "If we make it out of here alive, you're demoted!"

"I'll just be grateful for my life, then," you mutter, though he's already chasing after another deserter. Your tiny planet isn't capable of holding the First Order away forever, though, even if you manage to stave off this attack. You don't know what will happen even if your people survive.

Your cannon is ready and you hone in on the giant ship leading the siege. You force yourself to calm down, gently coaxing that determination back into your favor. You mutter to the back of yourself that maybe, your childhood obsession would have been better wasted on studying war ships rather than Jedi, but it's too late for that now. All you can do now is focus, aim, and fire. And you do, steadying yourself against the mighty recoil to watch the magnificent blast barrel towards the main ship. Beside the scope, you can see the dark figure stop in the distance, but you ignore him as easily as he dodges the blasts occasionally thrown his way, not even bothering to harm anyone who tries. He turns around, his body language almost- intrigued. Just as the blast grows ever closer to the ship, though, it suddenly explodes before any damage can be done in a stunning sight. The beauty of the blue flame burns away the determination and any sense of hope you have left, leading you cold and full of dread.

There's no use fighting, at least not right now. The best you can do is cut your losses and try again later- and save as many lives in the meantime that you can. "Stop shooting!" you reluctantly scream to your colleagues, the people you've been training with since the First Order first started colonizing planets. "Maybe they'll do the same."

Most of the remaining shooters do so. Your commanding officers snarls at them, but they're too loyal to you to listen. Slowly, the others stop, too. You stumble to the command center as the other fighters dodge for cover, even (quite sourly) your superior. He can't fight a battle all by himself, after all. You shoot the white flag out of the top of the base in a show of surrender. The TIE fighters stop shooting and return the approaching ship. When you look, that man has paused, and there he stays until the ship stops above him. Smaller ships, all very imposing, land beside him. Legions of stormtroopers march out behind him as they continue.

"Drop your guns," you order, your voice cracking. "It'll save us all time."

"That's it then?" asks another girl as the rest follow.

"For now. Look for an opening- a real one, one that isn't suicide."

"Then it really is over," says the only remaining prince, Okli. You stare at nearly a dozen faces, all intimately familiar to you. Everyone else is either dead or deserted. Your general is dead. His immediate men are dead. The other bases stopped fighting a long time ago. A military of thousands, reduced to eleven in the span of a few hours. You glance at the locked door leading to the civilians, wondering how they'll react.

You put your hands up and walk out from your cover, and guns are trained on you. Your fellow soldiers follow suit, ending with your commanding officer. The man in black is in front of you all now, a stormtrooper in silver standing beside and behind him, seperate from the usual white bucketheads. "Frisk them," the man instructed in a mechanical voice, deep and serious. Eleven stormtroopers- one for each of them- deployed and checked them all. You raise your head in defiance, glaring daggers at the dark man. _That's it, Enevre_, you tell yourself sardonically. _You're not a coward if you look angry while you quit_.

As if he can hear you, he glances at you menacingly. Or, at least, you _perceive_ it menacingly- his helmet, of course, offers no hints for his emotions, and his body language is cold and impersonal. "Who is in charge here?"

The soldiers glance between you and the commanding officer nervously. He raised his chin, jaw clenching. "Legally, or in praxis?" The two men study each other.

"I am," you say. "Though he's the commanding officer."

The helmet swivels back to you. "Is that so?"

"Yes," you say, annoyed at his rhetorical question. You just want this to be over with. You realize you have no idea what's coming, but waiting for it will do you no good. He glanced down, thinking.

"Spare the girl, kill the rest."

The shots are being fired before you can process this, and gasp, blasts being fired past your line of vision at the rest of your remaining company. They fall to the ground, barely able of speech. You stare at them as the blasts cease, lifeless beside you. It's even more surreal than it is terrifying, and you feel a tear fall, then another. You're too stunned to weep, but it cracks through your focused mindset just enough to elicit tears, silent and gentle.

"Open the door to the civilians," he demands. You glance up at him. It takes a long moment for his words to register.

"Are you going to kill them?" You ask. You know you'll do it anyway- for a plethora of reasons. There's no way out unless you do, and they _will_ get in somehow; it would be best if the civilians can also run. They might make it. Even if they didn't get in, there's only so much food, so much water. A blaster is much less painful than dehydration.

"No," he said. For some reason, though you have no reason to, you believe him. You're certain you're going to die here as soon as you do. You glance over at the command center. You don't know the codes to do it- only the General did- but it doesn't matter, and maybe the man knows it. You struggle to let the determination wash over you, but when it does, you force the machine to comply. Slowly, the metal doors are dragged open, revealing the tunnel to where the civilians had evacuated to. "Onward," said the man.

"No," you say quickly, pleadingly. After a moment, he raises his hand and the stormtroopers cease. He's humoring you, amused. "There'll be panic if you all storm in there- I'm sure many of your men will die, too. Let me go in. Let me tell them to be calm, to surrender. That you won't hurt them."

He thinks about it for a long moment, then casually lowers his hand and almost shrugs nonchalantly. "Fine. Let's go." You turn and lead him into the tunnel, his presence imposing and suffocating. You can hear nothing but silence as they wait, holding their breath, knowing the doors have opened yet hearing no joy from the soldiers. Dread settles over the room, the entire remaining population of their small, beautiful planet.

"No," says Her Majesty the Queen, all but collapsing onto her chair. She's old and frail, and the news all but does her in. "My son?" You glance down, another tear falling. It's answer enough. "And Okli?" You close your eyes.

"It's just me, and all of you," you say. "But they won't hurt you. We need to go."

Murmuring. They didn't want to listen.

"We have no other choice," you say, looking pleadingly at the Queen, who is staring despondent at the ground. "We cannot fight, we'll all die and then they'll take our planet, anyway."

"But it'll be over our dead bodies!" screamed your neighbor. Thunderous applause.

Just as you glance at his aging face, it changes from valour to pain. He clutches at his throat as if he's being strangled. Everyone silencing, either staring at him or the dark man behind you. Desperately, you swivel. "Please," you beg. You can still hear his laughter as if you're drawing another mural on his driveway, or caring to his garden in exchange for a handful of coins and some sweets. "Please," you whimper, feeling yourself cry harder. Once you start that, it's like a floodgate, and you really _are _a little girl again, terrified and weak and helpless, afraid and sad. The dark man glances at you as your neighbor still chortles. You fall at the stranger's feet, still crying and pleading. After a moment, his arm drops, and your neighbor gasps for air. He's looking down at you, a pathetic, snivelling mess. Your forehead is touching his knee, your knees touching his boots.

"You will all follow," boomed the man. "Or you will all die." He spins and stalks away, knocking you back slightly and slapping you with his cape. You stumble to your feet and follow, leading your people forth. You still can't stop crying, feeling nothing but pain, grief, terror, and dread.

And _shame_. You're all led out to stand on the snow while more stormtroopers ransack the city like sheep waiting to be led back to their pasture after a slaughter of their companions. "What is your name, colonizer?" You demand to the dark man's back.

He straightens, then turns to you, standing tall and proud. "Supreme Leader Kylo Ren," he says. _Supreme Leader_. You'd spit on his mask in disgust if you didn't know your death would horrify the already traumatized civilians. He seems to know this, leaning forward a bit before sauntering a few steps closer. He's so much taller, the top of your head barely reaching the chin of his mask. You're forced to turn your head nearly straight up to look at him. You're _average height_\- you'd never met someone so tall. "What's your name?"

"Senior Officer Enevre Hthena," you say proudly.

"Well, _Senior Officer_," he says mockingly. "Your military has been wiped out. Your government is now officially demolished. You're not any sort of officer, not anymore." He glances over at the silver buckethead, motioning towards Her Majesty. "Speaking of, kill the Queen."

"No!" You cry, but it seems as if he's done letting you beg. After a calm _yes, sir_ the woman shoots the Queen. The people gasp and cry and stir, but no one dares start a mutiny. You're beyond furious for a long moment, and before you can stop yourself, you're sending him backwards in the snow. You've never done anything like that before- you're not even sure how you know that it's you. He stops himself effortlessly, then stalks towards you, looming over you again.

"The Force has been the only thing keeping you alive, little girl, but I suggest you control yourself," he warns. _The Force?_ You're not sure you believe him… But then again, what else could that be? He looks out at the small sea of your people- more a creek than an ocean, now- disinterested in you. "They're all civilians. Hold them all here, they can be integrated into the Order,"

"Yes, sir," says the woman once more.

Kylo Ren looks down at you. "Take me to your ship."

"Why?" you demand, thrown off by his strange request. Your neighbor begins to choke again, and with a snarl, you march off towards the shelter where you'd parked your personal ship. "That was entirely unnecessary," you snap.

"The other one," he says as he catches sight of your small starship. "The one you made yourself, with the remnants of your family's ships."

You tense, not bothering to ask how in the _stars_ he knows that. "It's parked outside my dwelling," you inform him. "We might as well take the starship, it's quicker than walking." You easily hop aboard, sitting in the driver's spot. He climbs into the seat beside you, looking awfully strange in your pastel pink ship. You weren't entirely big on the color yourself, but you liked the thought of the fastest ship on your entire planet- in your entire system, for that matter- being some small, pink, girly thing you'd never expect. You start the engine and zoom away, neither of you bothering to buckle.

It's not a long ride; you live close to your base, and any matter, your planet is one of the smallest in the galaxy. Your strange Frankenstein of a ship is waiting, a big hunk of it missing so as to enable you access to the insides. It was true it had _once_ consisted of spare parts from your mother's, father's, and uncle's ships, but by now everything had been replaced so often it was hard to know how much remained of any of them. You probably have ought to build a nicer looking ship with everything you wasted on this, but it runs good and it had sentimental value by now. The igloo atop your underground house has been toppled, and judging by the deserted feel of the entire block, the stormtroopers have ransacked everything by now.

"No," you gasp, remembering the books you held so dear. Without a glance at the man boarding your ship, you hurry down the rickety metal staircase and through the trashed living room, stopping in your bedroom. Your books are scattered round the floor along with everything else you own, but most of it looks unharmed. You gather the five Jedi books, the two photo albums, and the book-shaped safe, then struggle to carry them upstairs.

He's waiting for you, the cage containing all the lightsabers you'd collected over your travelling years in his hand. You let your belongings topple into the backseat, then stare at him with anger, determination, resolve. "I'll die before I let you have my mother's lightsaber," you say. You're reluctant to part with the rest, but you won't die for them. He sets the cage in the backseat.

"We will see," he says. "For now, we're heading back."

It's all a blur after you arrive back. Kylo Ren marches you onto the larger ship, leading you to what appeared to be his own private chamber. He set the cage on a chaise lounge, motioning for you to do the same with your books. "Sit," he says, pointing to a chair, and you do. He easily breaks through the lock of your cage, fishing out your mother's. "If you leave, I'll destroy it. Understand?"

You scowl and look down. "Yes."

He ignites it. You haven't seen the red light in years, and it's enthralling, to say the least. He swings it gently, getting a feel for it, and you watch. "Your mother was a Sith," he says.

"No," you say. "She killed a Sith."

He glances at you. "She stole his lightsaber?"

"Yeah," you say, and point to another in the cage. "But hers was red, too,"

"She was a Dark side user,"

"Yes."

He glances at you, then swivels and stalks away, leaving you sat there, alone. One question prevailed over the grief and sorrow from the conquest of your planet- _what now?_


	2. The Greatest Oddity

Kylo Ren was gone for a long time. You perused through your books when the grief became too much to deal with. You started with the Jedi books- stories of Master Yoda, of Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi, of the _chosen one_, Anakin, who fell in love with a beautiful Queen-turned-Senator and went Dark. The tale of Luke Skywalker, his lost sister Leia Organa, their rogue allies Han Solo and Chewbacca. How Luke defeated the Emperor with the help of the Sith Lord Darth Vader, using love and Light. It was a story you loved, bequeathed to you from you mother, written with her own theatrical flare, notes in the margin explaining just how she felt about everything. You and your mother had very different outlooks on life- Darth Vader had been wise and powerful, capable and cunning. He'd seen the folly of the Jedi and rightfully defeated them all, then led the Empire with his master for years… Before succumbing to a meaningless bond, weakness overriding him, and he'd died. To you, though, Anakin had been too passionate. He'd let himself be manipulated by Palpatine, and turned against the admittedly crooked Jedi, ruining everything he loved. He'd been a tyrant, but he'd seen the Light in his son- a Light so bright and pure he couldn't help but see Luke's reason. Luke was a determined, bright soul, coming from nothing and fighting anyway, unwavering in his quest to free the galaxy from Palpatine.

Sometimes, you wondered where he'd gone after that. The galaxy needed him more than ever now, the First Order consuming the once-free planets. You turned the page past Luke's story and saw the first thing _you_ had added to your mother's book- a crude and silly drawing of your mother, a red lightsaber in hand, a crudely drawn illustration of a headless Sith on the ground. You flipped through the pages- slowly, the artwork improved. Visions, dreams of all the things your mother accomplished.

They'd stopped when you were thirteen. The book ended there, many empty pages to go. The last thing you'd drawn was your mother looking out at an asteroid belt, lightsaber ignited beside her. It was from behind, and she looked serene and foreboding. Your own creative style gave it all a colorful but macabre vibe, the proportions a little off. For your mother, it made her look wicked and lively, chaotic and strong.

Kylo Ren opens the door then, walking in. It's been hours, and it's nighttime now. He glances down at the drawing in your lap, then walks past you to kick his boots off. He tosses the lightsaber on the chaise lounge, then unclips his cape and tosses it into a hamper. He grabs his helmet and it hisses; slowly, he removes it. You're expecting something horrifying- a pasty, scarred old man, much like Vader, or a wrinkled, demonic grimace, like Palpatine. Instead, you're greeted by the youthful face of a handsome man only perhaps two or three years older than you. He's got a scar on one cheek that begins above his eye and disappears beneath his collar, but it does nothing to change his appearance. His _normality_ behind the mask is perhaps the greatest oddity to behold. He glances at you with a small smirk, though it isn't wicked or Dark. He doesn't hold the same air as you imagine the Emperor or Vader did.

_Supreme Leader_. This man conquered countless planets. He slaughtered the remnants of your base. He assassinated your Queen. He straightens. "Are you hungry? I know I am," he walks towards the kitchen, and you watch him. _Spare the girl, kill the rest. You will all follow, or you will all die. Speaking of, kill the Queen_.

_Are you hungry? I know I am_.

Before you know what you're doing, you've grabbed your mother's lightsaber and ignited it. He pauses, then glances over his shoulder, staring calmly at the red plasma. Plasma? You're not sure what to call it, really. You know it's from the kyber crystal within, but-

"Put that thing away," he says, walking forward. "I know you don't know how to use it."

"You don't know anything about-" you start.

"I know everything about you," he insists. "You're a sad little orphan living in an igloo on a strange planet in the middle of nowhere," he began, rifling through the fridge.

"I'm not an orphan," you argue. "My mother is alive."

He laughs as if you've made a slightly funny joke. "Your mother died more than ten years ago."

"No," you say fiercely, gripping her lightsaber. He glanced at it, then your eyes, before returning to his preparation.

"Are you going to eat?" he asks. "I need to know how much to make,"

Your stomach is growling. You haven't eaten in nearly twenty four hours. "Fine," you snap reluctantly.

"You killed your father when you were seven-"

"I did not," you argue, voice shrill with fury.

He looks you in the eyes. "There was an ice storm, and you locked him out of your ship." You stand ever straighter. You don't need to argue with him. Amused, his expression still mild and nonchalant, he turns back to the food. "You were alone after that, your mother having left shortly after you were born. You spent your life daydreaming about her, drawing about her in the books she left you." You glance down at the fallen book on the floor. "When your dreams stopped, you briefly apprenticed under a blacksmith, then joined the military when you heard about the First Order. You were a wonderful soldier, and the General- the Crown Prince, son of the Queen- wanted to promote you through the ranks, but you refused to leave your base, wanting to be on the ground where you'd be useful in a battle. You'd have been the commanding officer of it, at least, if the man above you wasn't a potential political rival to the Queen. You're the best shot in this solar system, one of the best pilots. You've never trained with a sword or staff of any sort; your master at the smithy forbade it until further into your training, but you left before you could learn. If you try to strike me with that, I will remove your arm, destroy those books, and skin your dearest friends alive."

You stared at him for a long time, motionless. You weren't entirely sure you believed him, but his words echoed in your head: _Spare the girl, kill the rest. You will all follow, or you will all die. Speaking of, kill the Queen_. You deactivate the lightsaber and set it on the chaise lounge, then lift up the book and set it beside the others. When you look up at Kylo once more, he's still cooking, looking entirely unbothered. "What do you want from me?"

He doesn't answer you. "Sit at the table."

You close your eyes and clench your jaw, settling your quickly bubbling anger and force yourself to sit at the table. He brings two plates of food and sits across from you, handing you one. You stare at him as he chews his first bite. "You must know I won't stop looking for an opportunity to kill you and take back my planet. If you can see all that in my mind, you can surely see I haven't given up- not for good."

"I know I'm no chef, but you should eat," he says. You gingerly take a bite, then look pointedly at him for a response. He gives you amused eyes, though as usual his expressions barely change his face. His eyes are emotive, and his lips twitch occasionally. That's about the extent so far. "I know you want me dead. I know you won't risk something you can't win, though, and I know I won't present you with anything you ever _could_ consider a likely win."

"What do you want from me?"

He glances over at the lightsabers as he takes another bite. "There are a lot of planets higher up on our radar than a tiny little monarchy with nothing to trade and nothing to offer. I set my sights on it for one reason-"

"My mother's lightsaber," you finish. He looks down with a faint smile. "Why?"

"What do you know about your mother?"

"Not much," you admit, looking down. "Her father was a Sith. She was Dark. She met my father, left me with him. My dreams are all I have- snippets. And…" You glance at the books. "Little notes from her. The books are all she left me."

He glances at them, then at you. "Your father was Darth Sidious," he says.

"I know. My father said."

"Do you know who Darth Sidious is?"

You frown. "A Sith Lord?"

He can't help but keep the amused look off his face, a brow quirked, tongue on his teeth, eyes downcast. "Sheev Palpatine."

You inhale sharply. "No."

He meets yours eyes. "Use the Force. You already know it's true." He says. Your brow furrows. You don't know _how_ to use the Force. "But you do," he insists, leaning forward slightly. You lean back in response. "You call it _determination_\- the Light, anyway."

You look down with a frown. All those times you fought and won- training with allies, or today, fighting with the Order. It wasn't skill. "Oh," you say.

"The Force is a skill," he argues.

"Not one they were using," you counter. The first foe with the same skill was Kylo himself, and he'd beaten you easily. You'd grovelled at his feet- literally. You close your eyes as shame settles over you like a shadow, rubbing salt in your wounds. _You are weak_.

"But you don't have to stay that way," he says softly, solemnly. "I can teach you the ways of the Force. I can make you strong. You're already familiar with both sides- strong with each, though unskilled. You could be great. People will grovel at _your_ feet."

"I was tested for midi-chlorians," you counter. "My father was _aching_ for a reason to throw me out- I barely have any."

He stares at you for a long time. "The Force is strong with you. Midi-chlorians aren't the only factor. Look at me," he bids, sitting back. "I have less than Luke Skywalker, and still I defeated him. I had less than Snoke, and still I killed him."

You stare at him, mouth falling open before clenching your jaw. "You killed Luke Skywalker?"

"No," he admits softly. "But I beat him."

"I just want to go home," you admit softly, looking down at your half-eaten food. You didn't want to be Dark. You didn't want people to grovel at your feet.

"You can't go home," Kylo says. _Because you destroyed my home._

"And what will you have me do, _teacher_? Topple cities, slaughter governments, conquer planets?" You ask coldly. You won't ruin others as he's ruined you- you refuse.

"No," he says. "I have other uses for you- depending on how strong you become, how capable."

That isn't exactly an answer. You close your eyes. "What are my other options?"

He's silent for a moment. "You don't have any other options."

Annoyed, you open your eyes to scowl at him. That's not how negotiations work. "There are always other options."

"I'm the Supreme Leader. I don't have to negotiate."

"I could run," you argue. "Find the Resistance."

He laughs amusedly. He knows you're bluffing; he knows you wouldn't. "You could certainly try."

You hate his stupid handsome face, his stupid hearty laugh. He acts like a man, but he's a _monster_. His face is the facade, his mask the reality. He meets your eyes, pondering your thoughts. "Get out of my-"

"You don't hate me," he says, not caring that you were speaking. "You wish you did, and the fact that you don't just makes you angrier. You're not capable of hatred, at least not right now. Just anger, and sadness, and fear."

His words are like a knife, and you tense, closing your eyes, inhaling sharply. "I'm more than capable of hatred."

"You don't hate your father," he says casually. "You're afraid of him. You're angry at him. _Still_. I doubt you ever won't be. But you don't hate him- you _love_ him. How pathetic."

You shudder in your seat, staring down at your food. Your brow furrows and in an instant, you've sent it flying across the table. It smacks him in the face, and he closes his eyes just in time to protect them. You can feel his fury radiate off of him for a long moment, but he doesn't move. You instantly regret it, swallowing. Slowly, as if it might soften his blow when he finally explodes, you pick up a napkin to wipe him clean. He grabs your wrist in an iron grip and you gasp at the pain- he tightens his hold and you cry out. Within seconds he's cleaned himself, somehow- _the Force_\- and he stands, yanking you with him. You're gasping in pain, trying not to cry out, standing in front of him. His eyes are fire as he scowls at you, teeth bared, and for several long moments this animal in front of you is much more terrifying than Vader or Palpatine could ever be. He throws you backwards and you stumble onto the chaise lounge, nearly igniting your mother's lightsaber directly into your thigh. You grab it and deactivate it as he pummels the wall three, four, five, six, seven times. When he stops, his glove is torn and his knuckles are bleeding. The wall to the bathroom has a nineteen inch whole in it. _That could have been me_. Neither of you move for a long while.

Eventually, you're brave enough to stand, and you pull out a chair. "Let me attend to your hand," you breathe. He glances at you, as calm as he was before, though a sense of foreboding hangs in the air around him. He sits in the chair and you walk towards him, reaching out for his hand.

"Kneel," he says, not looking at you. You swallow, then reluctantly obey. Are you afraid of him? You know he won't hurt you, _somehow_\- the Force. You're not sure if fear's the right word. He grabs your chin in his bloodied, purple hand. The strong iron smell is nearly strong enough to make you gag. "Look at me," he hisses through clenched teeth, and warily you do. He leans forward. "I'm your master. You will not fight, you will not argue, you will not revolt. If you do…" He yanks your face up so your neck and your back are uncomfortably stretched. His eyes are deadly serious. "You will pay. I won't kill you- not unless you don't prove useful to me. But I will make you pay."

He releases you and sits back in his chair, and you relax, jaw clenched. He calmly watches as you peel the leather off of his large hand. His knuckles and the skin around them are skinned, his fingers bruised, the joints of them bleeding as well. You go to the bathroom and find a med pack, then return to kneel in front of him. He doesn't wince once. When you've cleaned and wrapped it up, he looks tired and tense. "I'm sorry," you breathe.

He glances at you, then stands, making you lean back to avoid being struck by his pelvis. He stares down at you, then grabs you by the elbow and drags you into his bedroom. You're barely able to get to your feet before he pushes you forward into the middle of his room. You look down at your arm- the bruise from where he grabbed you early was painful, and his dragging you didn't help. He closes the door behind him. "I'm going to bed," he says. "Don't annoy me."

You spin in time to see him begin to shrug his clothes off, then look down at the floor. "Where am I meant to sleep, exactly?"

"The floor. The bed. I don't particularly care." He's naked now, rifling through his dresser. You stare at his empty bed, red faced. It's big, at least. You glance at the floor. Tile. Cold. You frown at the bed, brow furrowing. He's finished changing, wearing tight thermal pants and nothing else. He glances at the military uniform you still wear, then wordlessly hands you another pair of thermal pants and a loose black shirt. You head to the door, but he grabs you- mercifully, by the other arm. "Don't open the door,"

"Why not?"

He scowls at you, and you look down, taking a step back. He releases you and walks to the bed, laying down. Setting his clothes on the dresser, you struggle to remove your uniform, stripping down to your sweat-drenched tank top and thermal pants of your own. He watches you, though seemingly out of boredom rather than any interest. You'd be tempted to rip his eyes out otherwise, of course. You turn from him to remove the tank top. "On second thought," he says, his disgust apparent in his voice. "You'd better shower if you plan on sleeping in my bed."

You tense, trying to calm your anger. How _dare_ he? Not everyone had the luxury of watching most of the battle from their cozy ship. He hisses through his teeth.

"You'd better watch yourself," he says in a threatening tone.

"Are you going to punish me for _thinking_?" You ask as calmly as you're able.

"No," he says in a low, dangerous voice. "But you'd better keep it to thoughts. You'd better be careful what you say and do."

You grab the clean clothes and stalk out of the bedroom, not caring to cover your brazier but still very embarrassed by the glance he pays it.

This is going to be one hell of a life.


End file.
